Uncovering the Truth
by rubberradish
Summary: His whole body was numb. He felt like he couldn't move, couldn't get up if he tried. He didn't want to get up. He didn't want to have to go back into a world where she wasn't. She was dead. House had killed her. The words kept echoing through his head, repeating themselves as if they were meant to torment him forever.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Takes place early Season 6- may contain spoilers from anything before. Also, uh, major character death.**

He didn't usually pack up his things alone. He looked at his wedding band, letting the fluorescent light catch it. No, usually she'd be there with him, and they'd be laughing at some trivial little thing that had happened during one of their shifts.

He pulled his jacket out of the locker, swinging the metal door shut. He'd have to wait a little longer today. Slinging it over his shoulder, he made his way over to the ER, where he found her rushing between patients, the dyed blonde strands that had escaped her ponytail hanging loosely around her face. She didn't seem to have noticed his presence.

"Hey."

She looked up, her bright green eyes quickly landing on his face. "Hey," she said, eyebrows raising up. She walked over, tucking one of the escapees behind an ear.

"Staying late tonight?" he asked, leaning in for a quick peck on the lips.

She looked quickly over her shoulder at the med bay, which was about three patients from being overcrowded. "Yeah. I thought I'd put in a little more time here before we head back to the team."

He sighed, nodding. It felt surreal, rejoining the diagnostics department after three years. "I can't believe we're really going back."

She smiled, a twinkle in her eyes. "We'll be running around, solving the unsolvable... and plus," she said, leaning in, "we'll be doing it together."

He could feel the corners of his mouth turning up as well. He would have her with him the whole day. "You're right, it should be fun."

A shadow passed over her face, hesitance freezing her features. "By the way... after my shift, I'm going to go stop by House's place, make sure he's settled okay after coming back."

Right, House had been back from the psychiatric hospital for days and she was already falling into his arms. He knew she cared about practically everything and everyone. He just wished that the diagnostician was excluded.

She seemed to have sensed what he was thinking, because she stuck her left hand in the air, showing off her ring with a pointed look. "Don't worry, I won't be gone for long. I'll be back in your arms before you know it."

He nodded, knowing he couldn't change her mind if he tried. Besides, whatever time was lost would quickly be made up for. "Okay. I'll see you in a few hours, then." He wrapped his arms around her for too brief a moment, before making his way out of the hospital.

The night was cold for the time of year, and Chase found himself wrapping his jacket tighter around his body as he reached his car. He couldn't shake the feeling that something bad would happen soon, like there was a dark cloud over his head watching his every move. It was probably just jitters. He was nervous about going back. It made sense. He let the key sit in the ignition a moment, shaking his head before driving away. Maybe he'd just pour himself a drink.

* * *

Each slow, ragged breath that pushed past his lips was painful, as if his body were being set on fire from the inside. they were real. they were real, and they weren't going to leave him alone. He could soothe the pain, take the edge off it. they were sure to keep reminding him of that fact.

It was right there, in its sleek plastic container, sitting on the coffee table. His arm was shaking when he reached out for it, fingers closing around the small bottle. He thumbed over the label, imprinting the words to his memory. House, Gregory. Hydrocodone. He could hear the whispering, taunting, telling him to take a pill, just one. He wasn't sure if it was Them speaking or his internal voice screaming so loud it could almost be heard.

How could he? He had just gotten clean. He had detoxed, gotten rid of the hallucinations. He had thought that they were hallucinations also. Thought the beatings, the threats, none of that was real. And in the psych hospital, he had finally felt at peace. But while Amber and Kutner had disappeared, they were still here, waiting for him when he came home.

Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe the Vicodin had nothing to do with it. Maybe he should just stay at Mayfield, forget about coming back, ever working as a doctor again.

Three knocks at the door. Someone was here. He threw the pill bottle under the couch before limping over to the door, his usual hopping gait seeming more exaggerated than usual. It must be Wilson. He had been told to keep an eye on him, to visit frequently to prevent a self-destructive spiral. When Wilson was here, he could pretend they never were. They wouldn't touch him when he was with him. He was safe, if only for a moment.

He unlatched the door, pulling it wide open, and almost had a heart attack. Cameron. What was she doing here?

He could see her eyes scanning him up and down, slowly widening as she took it all in. He knew he was a mess, thanks to them. He avoided looking at mirrors because of what he knew he would see. A hollow stick of a man, the life sucked right out.

A slight pallor came into her usually rosy cheeks, her hand reaching for her cell phone. He could see the small silver band wrapped around her ring finger. They had gotten married, hadn't they? When he was away.

He didn't know what would happen if she came in. No one besides Wilson had even stopped by. It was better not to test them. If they got unhappy... who knows what could happen.

She was on the phone now, calling Chase, no doubt, saying she'd be a little later than anticipated. He took the opportunity to try and shut the door.

Wham. She had wedged an arm into the gap and was now apologizing for the sudden sound. No, he couldn't let her get involved in this. After a few sickening 'I love you's, she pocketed the phone, looking back up.

"You need to leave," he said, leaning on the door, willing it to shut again.

A steely glint in her eyes. "No." She forced her way in, the door swinging shut as she entered. His arms hung limply at his sides, no longer trying to prevent her from entering. Maybe it was okay to let her stay for a while. Her gaze softened as she shrugged off her purse, putting it on the couch. "Sit down. I'll make us some tea."

His eyes trailed her figure as she disappeared into the kitchen. He didn't see any traces of them around. They had to be there, though, watching. He knew they disapproved. But seeing Cameron had somehow reignited some of the fight in him. He didn't care what they thought.

She returned with two steaming mugs, handing one to him before taking a seat on the couch beside him. She lifted up her mug and took a small sip, sighing. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or will I just have to keep waiting?"

"Nothing's wrong." He held the mug up to his lips, sipping at the tea. Chamomile, he noted, wrinkling his nose at the flowery scent. He hated tea, but it kept his mouth occupied, not talking. Wilson had brought it over, said it would help calm him or some other therapeutic nonsense.

"Right, and every time you say that, you nearly get yourself killed." She put a hand on his knee, looking into his eyes. "You can tell me anything, House. Really."

* * *

Chase sat at the kitchen table, an open bottle of beer sitting mostly untouched. Cameron wouldn't approve if she came home and he was out of his mind wasted. The feeling of dread hadn't gone, and he felt his eyes wandering compulsively over to the clock over and over. It had only been half an hour after she had called, yet each passing second felt longer than the last.

Maybe if she wasn't back by midnight he would go over, see if everything was okay. He squeezed his hand around the beer, the cold jolting through his senses. If she needed him, he wanted to be sober. He squished the lid back on awkwardly, sticking the bottle back into the refrigerator.

She'd told him not to wait up, though. She probably didn't want to be bothered. He flipped his phone open and shut, sighing. He'd go if she called, then. He'd keep it by his side, waiting. Moving to the living room, he switched on the TV, flipping through channels aimlessly, trying to take his mind off of her.

* * *

The mugs were empty now. She had taken them back, rinsed them out, left them in the rack to dry. The charade had gone on long enough. They were going to make a move if she was here any longer.

"You need to go," he said again, a desperate edge creeping into his voice. "It's not safe here." He needed her to understand. He needed her to leave. Please.

Her eyebrows scrunched up, mouth pouting slightly downward. "House... I'm not afraid of you."

What? What on earth was she talking about?

She held one of his arms gently, gazing steadily into his eyes. "Look, I understand that your current mental state might be... fragile, but I know you won't hurt me."

No, he wasn't the problem, they- he glanced over his shoulder quickly- they were. He could control himself. He couldn't control Them. "No... you don't understand. You can't help me anymore." His hand shot out, squeezing her wrist tightly. Maybe he could scare her off. He tried to beg her with his eyes, anything that wouldn't make him tell. Leave... leave...

Her arm stiffened in shock, but she didn't back off, didn't get up. "I won't leave until you tell me what's going on." She was pleading too, with those wide puppy dog eyes. "Please, House... whatever it is..."

"There's someone else here." He couldn't stop himself. The words had torn their way out, unable to stay bottled any longer. He released his hand suddenly, stepping back. What had he done? They had heard. They were coming. "Go," he begged, his voice guttural.

She backed away as if in a haze, the concern in her gaze multiplying tenfold. "What do you mean there's someone-" An arm reached around, pulling around her body tightly, a knife up to her throat. She was trembling, the skin of her neck bobbing against the blade.

"Don't hurt her," he cried, staggering forward. "Take it out on me. I talked. It's my fault."

The figure held her tighter, a drop of blood trailing down her throat. "She knows too much."

She was in disbelief, looking at him for help, for anything. "House?" she whispered his name, tearing up.

He looked away, arms dropping down. He hated seeing her helpless, afraid, but there was nothing he could do. The stakes were too high. "I'm sorry."

* * *

It was almost two in the morning now. He rolled over in bed, staring at the glowing red numbers on the clock.

He hadn't done anything to make her mad, had he? She should've called back already if she was spending the night. Maybe something was wrong. He picked up his phone, sighing as he set it back on the bed stand. Of course something was wrong. It was House, after all. She had probably just gotten tangled up trying to get him to not kill himself or something. She'd probably already forgotten about him. Or maybe she actually was mad. Even if she was mad, it wasn't like her not to call.

Well, if she wasn't going to call, he'd call her. He dialed her number, listening to the phone ring, hoping she'd pick up.

It went to message. What was he thinking? If she didn't want to talk to him... Her voice came out of the tiny speaker, bright and perky.

"Hey, it's Allison. Sorry I can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message."

He heard the long beep, taking a deep breath before speaking. "Hey. It's me. Please let me know you're okay." He paused, taking a shaky breath. "I'm worried about you." He put the phone back down, lying back. If she didn't respond in half an hour, he was going to drive over and-

The shrill ringing noise pierced through the silence, and he made a mad dash for the phone, flipping it open. It was her. "Hello?"

"It's House. Cameron's asleep. I'll see you in the morning." Click.

His words were clipped, measured, and Chase fought the compulsion to call back straightaway. He was probably just overthinking this. It was late. He had probably woken him up. But House hadn't sounded tired. He sounded tense, really. Strained. He propped up his pillow, leaning against it. Maybe if he thought about it, he could figure out why it felt off.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep until the alarm woke him up.

* * *

She was on the floor now, blonde hair fanned out, a few strands curling into the slowly growing puddle of blood, staining themselves a bright red. He combed his fingers through the silky strands, heart thudding away in his chest. Her face looked oddly peaceful, despite it all. He could almost trick himself into thinking she was asleep.

She was still beautiful, he couldn't help thinking, numbly running a thumb over her cheek. She was still warm, but most of the color had already drained out of her face.

They had seen the ring. He had tried to play it off, pretended she didn't have a husband, that the ring was only in remembrance of the one she had lost. There was no need for anyone else to get involved. No more avoidable casualties.

Then that idiot Chase had to call. And he had to pretend, had to blatantly lie to one of his protégés that his wife was fine, that she wasn't dead at his feet. Lying came easily to him. So easily that he was sickened by the words that came out of his own mouth. He hadn't even hesitated.

They had left him with the body, with a warning that he knew what would happen if he tried to commit suicide. There wasn't anything he could do. He had tried to slow the bleeding, tried to preserve what life was in her when they had left. But the thin blanket now only lightly covered her frame, stained dark like the carpet she lay on.

They had left her face untouched. He was sure they had done it to taunt him, to force him to look. Otherwise he could've pretended it was someone else. He wanted desperately to pretend. And he hated pretending. If only he hadn't opened the door.

This was it for him, wasn't it? They were going to lock him behind bars, throw away the key. He would never be back in this apartment again, not that he wanted to be. He would never practice medicine again.

He dug the Vicodin bottle back out from under the couch, popping the top. There was no point being sober anymore. He didn't care about withdrawal, didn't care about the consequences. His life was descending into hell as it were. He might as well speed up the process.

Tipping back the bottle, he swallowed what was left, chucking the now empty container in whatever direction. Slowly, he lay himself down on the floor beside her, waiting for the drugs to kick in, to take him away to their familiar euphoric buzz. And so, stoned out of his mind, he waited for the police to come.


	2. Chapter 2

Chase was exhausted. The mostly sleepless night had been no aid. He clumsily rolled out of bed, grabbing his phone off the nightstand. He'd call her, just to check in. He flipped it open to a dark display. He hadn't plugged it in, had he? With a sigh, he stuck it on the charger, leaving it behind. She had probably already tried to call, already left for work without him.

The usual hustle and bustle of the hospital seemed diminished a bit, quieter, and when he stopped by the locker room, it was empty.

He slipped on his lab coat, shoving his things in his locker. He couldn't wait to see her. He was sure it would all be worth it when he could hold her in his arms, kiss her on the head.

But, as he speed-walked down the hall, his heart sank. He could already see through the glass wall of the diagnostics room that she wasn't there. Neither was House, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. Foreman was at the table, head bowed. But the person that made his heart stop was Cuddy, standing by the board with her hands clasped together. Her posture was off. He glanced quickly back to the man at the table. So was his. Something was wrong.

He walked into the room, hands clenched into fists in his pockets. Whatever it was, it couldn't be that bad. It couldn't be. He looked up at the dean of medicine. Her eyes were red, makeup splotchy. She'd been crying.

Oh, God. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know, but he had to. "Cameron's not here."

The woman was trembling now, blinking rapidly. She took a shaky breath, wiping her eyes quickly, trying to compose herself. "Chase, I'm so sorry..."

His heart pounded in his chest, so loud it rang through his ears. No. Don't say it. Don't say it. Please. If she didn't tell him, it couldn't be real. He would see her soon. They would hug, share stories. She'd laugh at him for opening a beer and not drinking it.

"Cameron's dead."

Whatever hope he was clinging on to shattered apart. No. It couldn't be. He had just seen her.

"She was found in House's apartment a few hours ago. They've already taken him into custody for the murder." She shook her head as she said it, in as much disbelief as everyone else in the room. "The police tried to call you, but they said they couldn't reach you."

His phone. He hadn't charged it. What if she had called him? Asked for help?

He stumbled back, grasping onto the door handle. She couldn't just be... gone. She couldn't be.

"No." He almost didn't realize the word had left his lips. "No..." he shook his head, looking up. His mouth was twisted into the semblance of a smile, the arm that grasped onto the handle shaking. "This is some sick joke, isn't it? She's not- she can't be-" His heart was racing, hand slipping from the door. His features fell, contorted by the sudden wall of grief. He was laughing, chest bobbing up and down unnaturally. "She's not dead," he choked, tears running freely now. "She's not dead."

* * *

He sat on the bench of the locker room some time later, staring a hole through the floor. Anyone who passed through could've easily mistaken him for a statue. A fountain, maybe. His whole body was numb. He felt like he couldn't move, couldn't get up if he tried. He didn't want to get up. He didn't want to have to go back into a world where she wasn't.

She was dead. House had killed her. The words kept echoing through his head, repeating themselves as if they were meant to torment him forever.

 _House_ had killed her. The statement seemed to ring a discordant bell. The way she had sounded, when she called him... whatever had been going on was bad. She had told him before that she had seen House at a low point. He didn't know the details. It hadn't been his business to pry. What could've been so bad, so horrible that he would-

It didn't make sense. None of this made sense. But here he was, with one dead wife and zero answers. And he didn't know if he cared enough to find them. Either way, she wasn't coming back to him anymore.

* * *

House hadn't expected anyone to visit, especially not so soon. He had thought that what he had done would cut ties with everyone permanently, that whoever might have cared about him before no longer did. But after laying his eyes on the visitor, he wished that they hadn't come.

Wilson was pacing around the small visitor's room, eyes frenzied. He kept shaking his head, throwing his hands up in frustration. After a moment, he sat, not meeting his eyes. "You've gone too far this time."

House didn't respond. What could he say? Anything would be too risky.

When he looked up, his eyes were shining with pain. "You _killed_ Cameron!"

He hated the look on his face. The betrayed gaze of utter disbelief, shock that someone he trusted could dare do what he thought he had done. "It was an accident." He wasn't sure why he said that. That was wrong. He did know. He wanted to try and convince him he wasn't the monster he thought he was. He didn't want to lose him.

"She was stabbed 20 times," Wilson said, voice quivering. "I don't understand how you- do I even know you?"

Yes, you do, he thought desperately. You know I would never. I wouldn't! "I don't know."

A resolve came into the oncologist's eyes, one that he dreaded hearing the reason behind. He sighed, standing up. "I'm sorry, House. I don't- I don't think I'll be back." He turned and walked a few steps, stopping for the briefest moment to look back. "Good luck. God knows you need it." And with that, Wilson left the room, and, House suspected, his life as well.

He had said something kind. Despite the fact he thought his, well he supposed ex-best friend, was a murderer. It brought him no comfort. In fact, it twisted an invisible blade deeper into his heart. Wilson would never end a relationship by saying something hurtful. It wasn't in his nature. Him being kind meant... he really wasn't ever coming back.

* * *

Chase was on autopilot. He had somehow made his way home, drank the beer he had opened, drank a few more, smashed his face in his pillow, lay unmoving for hours.

He didn't feel anything, couldn't feel anything. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe he wouldn't notice the fact that he'd never feel her arms around him again.

The doorbell went off, the two chimes echoing through the otherwise silent home. He didn't want visitors, didn't want anyone unless it was her, but that wasn't possible. The bell rang again, and reluctantly, he pulled himself up, moving to the door.

He didn't know what he had been expecting, but Wilson had to be one of the last people he thought he would see on the other side of the door. He didn't know the man well, didn't really even talk to him often.

He was attempting a sympathetic smile, a corner of his mouth turning a fraction of an inch upwards as he offered out a large, foil covered dish. "It's lasagna."

He nodded, accepting it. He didn't want to be pitied, didn't want to see eyes looking down on him like a kicked puppy. He just wanted her back.

Wilson sighed, fidgeting with his hands. "Look... when Amber died..."

He should've seen this coming. He was going to compare the losses, say he knew what he was feeling, tell him it was going to be okay. He couldn't care less, didn't want to sit through condescending sympathy.

"Cameron was there for me. I wanted to return the favor."

Chase blinked. He hadn't been expecting that at all. "...Thanks." His voice was raspy, hoarse, and he hated that he had said anything at all, lest he trigger more concern.

The oncologist nodded. "I get that you probably don't want to talk right now. But if you do... my door is always open." And with that, he walked down the path, disappearing from sight.

* * *

Prison life was surprisingly easy to adjust to. Everything was on a schedule, similarly to the psych hospital, and if he didn't bother anyone, no one would bother him. He was fine with that. He couldn't even imagine the average intelligence of the people around him.

The first day someone had tried to talk to him, though. A black man in his thirties, short cropped hair and bright eyes. He had almost mistaken him for Foreman at first.

He had asked what he was in here for.

Murder, he had said, but he didn't do it. It was cathartic, in a way, to tell someone the truth. Even if that someone was a man who couldn't have cared less.

That's what they all say, he had said, before getting up, continuing to interrogate everyone else in the lunchroom.

He was in pain. He wouldn't be surprised if that's what they had planned all along. He had thrown up a meal due to withdrawal, and as a result was starving. His leg hurt, each step sending shockwaves up his body. They wouldn't let him keep the cane. Figures. It could easily become a weapon, after all. And so he limped. No matter the distance, no matter for how long.

But the physical pain was familiar to him. The emotional, on the other hand, was an obstacle he had not been well equipped to face. He kept seeing her face, lifeless, on the ground. He hadn't stopped them. Hadn't even tried. He thought of Wilson, who had been by his side through everything before, who was finally sick of him. Who had given up on him.

But he had done it so he could live. He didn't care about his own life. It wasn't one worth saving when it came down to it. But his... he was the one that mattered most to him. And they had known.

He had to know, right? Had to know somewhere, deep down, that he hadn't done it. That he wasn't a killer. It was a hollow wish for redemption. He knew he deserved all of the consequences delivered.

Because... If they had given him the knife, if they had told him to kill her... he wasn't entirely sure that he wouldn't have.

* * *

Foreman opened his door to a strangely familiar scene that night, and also an entirely unexpected one. A solemn echo of the day when Kutner died. Thirteen stood a little off-balance on the other side of the door, her strikingly green eyes boring into his, brown hair swooping over a shoulder. He didn't think that she, or anyone, for that matter, would have stopped by. Least of all her, especially given that the last time they had met he had fired her.

Her hands were clasped together, fingers fiddling with one another. "Hey." He didn't return the greeting, so she continued. "I know you want to be alone, but..." she paused, eyes lingering a moment, "I just want to tell you I'm sorry." With that, she turned to leave, but he felt compelled to reach out, to apologize. He had sent her away when Kutner had died. He had sent her away two days ago.

"Wait."

She stopped, turning back, curious.

He held the door open wider, taking a quick glance at the apartment behind him. "Come in."

They sat on the couch, neither of them really knowing what to do. She hadn't left, though, which he took as a good sign. She had never wanted to leave. He'd pushed her away. He sighed, looking down. He hadn't been a very good boyfriend, had he? He'd tricked himself into thinking he had made the right decision in letting her go. He knew he had hurt her. And yet, his pride hadn't let him admit it.

It was ridiculous, but, what had happened to Cameron... it had reminded him that life was too short to hold onto grudges. He looked at her, wondering if she would even forgive him. At the very least, he wouldn't forgive himself if he didn't say anything.

"I shouldn't have fired you."

Her head jerked up a little, a shadow of confusion passing over her face, wondering why he would bring it up now. When her eyes met his, however, realization clicked behind them. Relaxing her posture a bit, she moved a little closer to him, and he wrapped an arm around her, holding her tightly to his side.

* * *

Chase opened his eyes, rolling over instinctively, hand grabbing nothing but air. She wasn't there. Maybe she was in the kitchen, making coffee, getting ready for work. But he was already dressed for the day, the untucked dress shirt wrinkled from being slept in. He looked at the clock through puffy eyes, trying to see what time it was. It was nearly five in the afternoon.

It hadn't been a dream. She was really gone. He sighed, up at the ceiling. He was tired, defeated. Sleeping hadn't helped. He wandered outside, taking the lasagna out of the fridge, cutting off a serving to heat up.

He had put two plates down. He hadn't even realized. He reached out for the extra one, hand freezing in the air. He didn't want to put it back. It felt like acceptance, complacency. He retracted his hand slowly, sitting down, leaving the plate be.

Picking up a fork, he speared a bite, strings of cheese stretching from the rest of the dish to his mouth. The tomatoey flavor flooded his senses, and he chewed slowly before swallowing. It was good. He glanced over at the empty plate, the empty chair. She would've liked it. A wave of guilt. He was enjoying something she would never get the chance to. Standing up, he crudely wrapped the plate, sticking it back in the fridge. Maybe he wasn't hungry after all.

Foreman had spent the last few hours reminiscing in silence. Six years. He had known her for six years. They had grown apart a little, after she was no longer on the team. But he knew if he had needed anything, all he had needed to do was ask and she would be there.

She had saved his life once, a favor that he'd never be able to return. He still remembered what it was like to be dying. He had been desperate, afraid, nearing the point of insanity. He had almost dragged her down with him. It almost felt like cruel irony, that she had died from a stabbing. As if he hadn't stabbed her with a syringe with the intent of infecting her with a deadly disease.

And yet... she had stayed by his side through the whole ordeal. She was always caring, always putting herself out there for other people.

She was the last person he thought would be taken too soon.

Thirteen suddenly shifted under his arm, glancing at her watch before getting up. "Sorry. I've got a job interview to go to," she said, gathering her things. "I'm actually already a little late."

He nodded, eyes following her to the door. He wanted her back, wanted to hire her again. But things were in such a state of disarray at the moment. He couldn't make her part of this. "Thanks for coming."

Surprise flitted across her gaze, a slight smile turning up her lips as she stopped at the door. "Any time."

* * *

Chase didn't know how he found himself here, didn't know how the guards let him in, but the unanswered questions were going to tear his head apart if he stayed still any longer. He could recognize his shape from a distance, and his heart beat faster, rage boiling in his chest. His pace quickened as he made his way down the hall, turning into the visitor's booth.

The man was looking down. What, did he not think this was serious? Did he not give a damn that he had killed someone? Look at me, dammit. Look at me!

He slammed a fist into the bulletproof glass, the loud bang startling the man behind it. "What the hell have you done?" Pain shot through his wrist, but he didn't care, just wanted answers.

House looked back down, shaking his head wordlessly.

"How could you?! She _cared_ about you, you bastard! She cared about you! She came to check on you and you _killed_ her?!"

He took a seat, chest heaving. The energy had drained out of him in an instant, the pain in his wrist suddenly much more noticeable. He sighed, shaking his head. "I just wanna know why. Why is my wife gone, can you answer me that?" He looked at the man, waiting for an answer.

His head had tipped back down, daring not to meet eyes with the accuser. He didn't move, didn't speak, and Chase had half the mind to just get up and leave.  
"I'm sorry."

The words hung in the air, almost suffocatingly so. He was _sorry_? If he had cared, he wouldn't have... she would still be here. He blinked. No... the statement had seemed significant for a different reason. He hadn't given a reason.

If he had a lapse of judgment, if he'd lost control, he would've said so. If he'd completely lost it, he would've gloated. If he didn't know, he would've admitted that as well. Which meant...

"You didn't do it."

House looked up in surprise before averting his gaze, only solidifying the theory. "Yes, I did."

Chase shook his head adamantly. "No, you didn't. Why are you covering this up? You think it'll all just be better if you take the fall?"

He was still avoiding him, refusing to look at him. "You don't want to get involved. This isn't your business."

Business? He had the right to know. "My _wife_ is dead." He looked down at his hands, his right wrist already starting to swell up. He'd probably fractured it, he realized, wrinkling his eyebrows. "My wife is dead, and I didn't do anything to stop it." His eyes trailed up, landing on the other man's head. "You didn't let me. Why didn't you let me do anything?"

"I can't tell you."

Chase got up, kicking the metal chair back. "Then I'll just have to find out for myself."


	3. Chapter 3

"House didn't kill Cameron."

"What are you talking about?" Foreman asked, phone pressed up to his ear.

"Trust me. I know it." His voice had taken on an urgent tone. "We need to find them, Foreman. We need to find who killed her."

He blinked, sitting down slowly, trying to process. "Chase, you're grieving. You're not thinking straight." He shouldn't have left him alone. The man was going insane.

"Please, just listen to me! I know it sounds crazy, but you have to trust me. I need to find them!"

Foreman sighed. Maybe it would be a good idea to entertain the notion, keep him occupied. He needed someone with him anyway, and the neurologist supposed he could fill that role for the time being. "Meet me at the hospital."

It was dark now, after hours, and the doors of the hospital were locked, the lights off. Chase paced frantically back and forth, a wild look in his eyes. His clothes were disheveled, hair matted, sections sticking out every which way. Where the hell was Foreman? It'd been nearly ten minutes since he hung up the call. Cameron's murderer could be on a plane right now, flying to who knew where. He had to find them, had to bring them to justice, had to redeem himself. Every second spent standing here was a second wasted.

He could see Foreman's shape emerging from the darkness, a matching pair of shadows beneath his eyes. He walked up to him, slowly taking two metal pins out of his pocket. "I'm only doing this for you, alright?" he said, holding them up.

"Just get us in."

The man sighed, kneeling forward to pick the lock, before swinging the door open.

The walk through the darkened halls was silent, but the thoughts buzzing through Chase's mind were more than enough to keep him occupied. Was the killer someone he knew? Why didn't he see it coming? Why hadn't he done anything?

He could've stopped them. He could've saved her. Jaw clenched tightly, he kept walking. Whatever it took, he had to find them. For Cameron.  
Foreman had stopped in front of the door, hand around the handle. "You holding up okay?"

Chase tensed up, stopping in his tracks. Of course not. Of course he wasn't okay. His wife was dead, his mentor was framed for her murder, and there's some mysterious psychopath-

Calm down. The words seemed to slice through his mind, the world around slowing in an instant. His hands were shaking. That's what she would've said, wasn't it? If she was here.

He took a deep breath, nodding. "I've been better."

They entered the diagnostics room, sitting at opposite sides of the table. Chase folded his hands on top, wincing at the sudden jolt of pain.  
Foreman had noticed too, with the sudden addition of light. "What happened to your hand?"

He stuck it under the glass table, as if it would hide it from view. "It's not important." He wanted him to quit worrying about him, wanted to be left alone. But he needed his help to find the culprit.

The neurologist was studying his wrist, eyebrows crinkled in concern. "Chase, we need to get you down to radiology and-"

"I said, it's not important!" he lashed out, breath quickening a few paces. He regretted it almost instantly, averting his eyes quickly.

Foreman leaned back slightly, surprised by the outburst. With a small sigh, he rolled his shoulders. "Okay. Who would want to kill Cameron?"

Chase looked down. She never had any enemies. She would always try to make amends, regardless of who had wronged her. "I don't know."

* * *

House found himself watching the people around him go about their daily business. He could get out of most physical activity due to his disability, so a lot of the time, he simply sat and watched, trying to figure out the inner workings of all the other prisoners. It was easier than thinking about his own life.

He could just pretend it never happened. That none of it ever happened. He'd never see any of them again, anyway. They'd cast him aside after he'd betrayed them. He was alone.

He wished Wilson had never visited, that Chase had never visited. Their eyes had shone with pain, with hurt. Because of him. That's what he did, wasn't it? Hurt anyone who dared try to get close to him. It was probably better that he stay locked behind these bars.

He scanned the room, strangely drawn to the man who had talked to him. There was something strangely familiar about him, and as a result he watched him more closely than anyone else. And the more House studied him, the more he learned.

The first thing he learned was that he was getting released in about a month, as he animatedly told the people he ate with several times over the course of a meal. His mother had died a few months ago. That was divulged more silently, but House had heard through the wall.

There was something the man had to be hiding, though. He just couldn't put his finger on it.

* * *

"Maybe it had nothing to do with Cameron."

Chase blinked, slowly raising his head from the table. "How could it have nothing to do with her? She's _dead_."

Foreman shrugged, shaking his head. "Maybe whoever did it had something against House, and Cameron just got in the way."

The idea seemed to hold some merit. Chase glanced over at the past patient files in the corner of the room. If they were going to pick out people who could have something against House... they were going to be here for the next century. He got up, bringing the first crate over. She had organized these files. House had always been too lazy to. Even after she had left the team, she was still doing favors for him. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. House didn't deserve her sympathy, didn't deserve her help. He was a jerk. Always had been, always would be. Maybe he hadn't stabbed her, but he wasn't blameless either. Yet here he still was, trying to redeem him in a way.

Chase pulled out the first file, placing it down on the table. If they were doing this, they had to start from the beginning. "November 16, 2004."  
Slowly but surely, a pile of possible suspects grew on the table. Then a second. Then a third. Eventually, neither one of them could even see the other over the piles of files.

Chase could feel his eyelids drooping, his head hanging low over the table. He couldn't sleep. Not now. But when he flipped open the next file, the words seemed to blur before his eyes, incomprehensible. Eighty year old Henry Cleary? Harry Clark? Was he even eighty? He slid the file across the table without reading further into the contents. "What about this one?" he slurred, catching himself quickly before everything tried to go dark again.

Foreman glanced at it briefly before pushing it away. "Too old." He looked up, his eyes red, dark circles underneath. "Give it up for tonight. We can come back tomorrow. You're tired, I'm tired..."

"No," he said, pushing himself up. He couldn't give up. They were out there. Foreman's arms were folded lazily over the table, his eyes betraying his nonchalance on the topic. After all this... how could he? "You still don't believe me, do you? You think I'm mad."

The neurologist stood up as well, walking closer. "It's not about what I believe. You're hurting yourself chasing after something that doesn't-" he caught himself, sighing. "Cameron wouldn't have wanted you to-"

"Don't you _dare_ tell me what she would've wanted!" His hands were balled into fists, chest heaving. He didn't know her. He didn't know anything. He thought he had the right to lecture him about his own wife? He-

He didn't have the right to be angry. He sat back down, head in his hands. Foreman was right. She wouldn't have wanted him to do this. But he would never hear her say that, never hear her voice again. She was gone. Sobs racked his body, tears trailing down his face. There was nothing he could do to bring her back. Nothing he was doing now would change that.

Foreman took a step closer. "Chase, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have acted like I would know what she'd want."

He didn't respond, didn't move, couldn't move. The tears kept dripping down, probably ruining whatever file he was perched over. He didn't care. It wasn't like anything mattered anymore.

"I just want someone to wake me up from this bloody nightmare."

* * *

"Hey. You."

The man looked up from his meal as House limped over, tray in hand. "Yeah?"

"You got a name?" The diagnostician dropped his tray down on the table with a clang, sitting without waiting for an invitation. The benches were cold and hard, like the rest of the damned place.

The other man blinked, leaning a little away. "Marcus."

House nodded, sticking out a hand, which the prisoner took hesitantly. "Call me House."

The man frowned, glaring at him through narrowed eyes. "Call me Apartment."

A laugh tore its way from his throat. "Smart." This man was an idiot. But still, House had to get closer for the time being, had to figure him out. Anything that would stuff the past away deeper. "You got a family?"

Marcus opened and closed his mouth, looking away quickly before responding. "I got a dad and a brother. Why?"

He was hiding something. He had to be. "No mom?"

The other man had now scooted an inch or two away down the bench. "She died recently. Why are you asking?"

So he wasn't ashamed of that. What could it be? "Oh, I just wanted to get to know some people better," he lied, topping off the act either a small shrug and a false smile. "Family live around here?"

The man scoffed, spearing a baby carrot with so much force House was surprised he didn't stab through the tray. "I'm not saying any more until you tell me something about yourself."

Damn. There was always a catch. House swallowed the bite he was eating. "I've got no siblings, and my dad is dead," he said as quickly as possible. "Does your family live around here?"

Marcus sighed, placing the fork down. "My bro's around here. Dad lives a ways away."

Wait a second... House scrutinized his face, peering in at the details. Oh, this was just hilarious. "Is your brother's name Eric?"

His eyes widened, eyebrows raised. "Yes," he stammered. "How did you know?"

House didn't respond, instead gazing off into the distance. He was Foreman's brother. Of course. So much for burying the past. "Your brother never mentioned me?"

Marcus shook his head, eyes trained on his tray. "He hasn't talked to me in years." He scratched his head, turning away. "I wish he hadn't given up on me, but... well, he's right after all. I screwed up one time too many. He's a good guy. Me, not so much."

House nodded along to the words that were all too true. "Ain't that right." Maybe the older Foreman wasn't such an idiot after all.

* * *

Chase hated being alone. The loneliness was everywhere, lurking behind every corner, pressing in on him. She was everywhere. Everything was still where she had left it, and he didn't want to touch it, didn't want to wipe her tracks away. He was walking in his own house as if it was a museum. He stopped in front of their wedding photo, propped up on the coffee table. Here in Exhibit A, we have a relic of Chase and Cameron being happy.

He reached out and touched the photo, gazing longingly at her face. She had insisted on putting it out to display, told him they needed it out or else their home wouldn't be complete. He had waved it off as tacky, arguing that they should keep it in the bedroom, but eventually setting it out. He didn't think it was tacky anymore.

He could still remember how she felt pressed up against him, as they danced on their wedding night. He remembered wishing they could stay like that forever. Now he didn't have her at all.

What was he meant to do now? With her gone, time had stopped. He didn't know how to move on, didn't know if he could. The hand holding the photo was shaking, and he set it back on the table to avoid dropping it. He had been so sure, so dead set on finding the person who had killed her. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe he'd deluded himself. Maybe he had really lost it.

He walked to the bedroom, carefully avoiding touching anything she had, before curling up on his side of the bed, waiting. For what, he didn't know.


	4. Chapter 4

Foreman strode down the hall for the second time that day, Thirteen a few steps behind. He needed more heads. His felt as if it was clogged up beyond the ability of rational thought. He just needed... someone to talk to.

"Look, if this is just some ploy to get me back on the team, I've-" She stopped in her tracks, noticing the piles of files on the table. "What's this?"

"These," he said, standing on the other side of the table. "Are our diseases."

Thirteen raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Okay...? I don't get it."

Foreman rolled the whiteboard over, scribbling frantically. "The symptoms... murder... profuse hatred for House... and... I suppose, disregard for human life."

She took a step closer, the expression on her face shifting from confusion to a concerned amusement. "Right, because 'disregard for human life' would be written down in medical records. We know the answer. Diagnosis, Gregory House."

"I just want to cover all our bases," he said, putting the marker down. He already knew it was impossible when the words left his lips. The amount of information they had... the number of possibilities... the evidence that already pointed the case in House's direction...

She shook her head. "No. This-" she gestured at the table with her hands- "this isn't like you."

He sighed, posture slumping. "Chase, he- I don't know. I'm really worried about him."

Thirteen took a seat at the table, motioning for him to do the same. "You know... there are ways to help grieving friends other than entertaining delusions by playing detective."

He sat, head propped up by an arm. "I know." He just... didn't know what to do instead. People didn't go to him for emotional help because he'd just come off as cold. She should know that better than anyone. But Chase... didn't really have anyone else anymore.

"Have you even visited him?"

"I-" he stopped, meeting her eyes. What had he been thinking? What kind of idiotic person... He shook his head. "No, I haven't."

Thirteen stood, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe start there, then. Leave all this behind." She paused, the hint of a smile in her features. "I'll be waiting for you when you come back."

* * *

"You have a visitor."

House looked up from the lumpy cot on which he sat, reluctantly making eye contact with the guard. This was psychological torture, wasn't it? An endless stream of the people he cared about expressing their disgust of him.

"Come on. Don't have all day."

"I'm going, I'm going," he grumbled, pushing past the man as he limped down the hall. Who would it be this time? Foreman wouldn't dare set foot in this prison. Not while his brother was still here. His money was on Cuddy. She'd love tearing him a new one, wouldn't she? 'Lecture House' was probably part of her daily schedule. There was, however, a chance that-

He caught a glimpse of the visitor and stopped dead in his tracks, breath catching in his throat. No. His heart was hammering away, pulse ringing in his ears.

"You."

* * *

"What are you doing here?"

They were on the other side, a tight smile on their face. "Just checking in."

House scoffed. "You don't give a damn about me. Why are you here?" Alarms were ringing in his head, matching the ringing in his ears. This was getting out of hand. Another one was dead, weren't they? His eyes widened, looking at them. They were happy. Who was dead now? What else was he responsible for?

"Do you know what your little underlings have been up to lately?"

No. He didn't. Who would they kill? There was no order, no reason. "I've been in the same place this whole time. Spit it out."

"They're looking for me."

Chase. He had figured out they existed. He would be the next logical target. "So you killed Chase."

A chuckle. "The blond one? She was his wife, wasn't she? I haven't killed him. Not yet. But I've got a feeling you'll help me."

"And I've got a feeling you'll go kill yourself," House retorted. "Unfortunately, I also have a feeling that neither of us are right." Help kill Chase? They were insane. After Cameron... no, he wouldn't. Never again.

They were, however, unfazed. They tilted their head, the thin smile still there. "What is he worth to you?"

"Chase?"

"Wilson." His heart sank at the sound of his name. They folded their hands on the counter. "I want an objective value. Who are you willing to give up?"

House didn't respond, face going slack. He couldn't. But he knew. Knew that he would trade them all for him in a heartbeat.

"Do you really doubt that I would kill him?"

No. No, he didn't. But there had to be another way out of this. There had to be. He was tired of failure.

"So? What'll it be?"

House raised his head slowly, eyes narrowed. "You're afraid they'll succeed. That they'll find you. That's why you've changed your approach."

They hesitated a moment, standing up. He had found a way out. But then the smile came back, twisting his gut into a knot again.

"We're not so different, you and I."

His hands were fists now, his entire body rigid. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"We'd both do whatever it takes to get what we want." His heart jumped at the statement. They were right, after all. He'd been able to out cheat, outsmart, nearly anyone and any situation to get what he needed. But they were different. They didn't care how far they went. That was why Cameron was gone. "I want Chase dead, you want Wilson alive. Take your pick." They turned to leave, taking a few steps away.

"Wait."

They stopped walking, but didn't turn.

"He-" House gritted his teeth together. He was really doing this, wasn't he? "He's allergic to strawberries." His breath caught in his throat as he said it. He was betraying them again. Right after he'd promised himself he would never do it again.

With a nod, they continued walking, disappearing from sight.

He stayed in the chair for a long while, looking down. Chase was going to die because of him. They all were. No. Not this time. They couldn't touch him right now. He could fight back.

Hobbling as fast as he could, he found Marcus engaged in a game of ping pong with another inmate. Getting closer, he snatched the ball out of the air, the two responding with disappointed groans.

Marcus threw his hands in the air. "Come on, man, we were-"

"Call your brother. He's going to need an EpiPen." House dropped the ball on the table, walking away as the men looked at him in confused silence.

* * *

The house was dark, filled with fog, and Chase could barely make out the outlines of furniture as he wandered out of the bedroom. There was someone standing in the middle of the room, obscured by the fog.

"Hello? Who's there?" He squinted his eyes, tried to look closer, when the fog lowered, swirling around his waist. The flash of blonde, her eyes gazing softly at him.

"Allison," he whispered, staggering forward. She was here. It would be okay. He wrapped his arms around her, taking in her familiar scent. She hugged him back, gently, wordlessly. It was perfect. Everything was perfect. He closed his eyes, leaning in.

"We never really did have a proper goodbye."

His muscles tensed up, eyes opening slowly. Why would she say that? Because she's dead, his brain said, but she couldn't be. She was right here. He stepped out of the embrace, looking her up and down. Why did he think she was dead?

Because she was. He wasn't sure why, but the thought stuck as truth. She was moving away now, farther and farther, the room seeming to stretch away with her.

"No," he cried, but he couldn't move, couldn't go after her. His legs were stuck in place. "Don't leave me again. Please." The words did nothing, as he could now barely make out her silhouette against the fog, and even that was quickly fading away. "I still need you! Please! Allison!"

His eyes snapped open, heart pounding. He'd twisted himself into a knot with the sheets, sunlight streaming down from the windows. It'd been three days.

He remembered when he had had a nightmare once, and done a similar thing. She hadn't been mad, hadn't chastised him for practically knocking her out of the bed. She'd hugged him, waiting patiently for whatever he had to say, and they'd just sat as she listened to him talk.

He wished she could still be here to listen. He dragged himself out of the bed, not bothering as he dragged the blankets down with him. Three days without her now. Three days out of forever. He almost didn't recognize the man in the mirror. His hair was greasy, unkempt, his whole face seemed to have taken on a sunken in appearance. Dark stubble lined his cheeks, matching the rings beneath his eyes. His right wrist was in a cast now. They'd gone to radiology, done an x-ray. It was fractured, just like he thought it was. It just added on to how much of a mess he was. The t-shirt he slept in seemed to hang loosely on his body, as if it was made for a much larger person.

He needed to eat. He still didn't have an appetite, but the statement stuck. He splashed cold water on his face, ran a comb through his hair haphazardly a few times, before wandering into the kitchen, half expecting her to be standing there, waiting for him. She wasn't.

He uncovered the same portion of lasagna, tossing it into the microwave. If he had to eat, so be it. Cutting off a piece, he stuck it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing without waiting to savor it. There was a knock at the door. What now?

But as he tried to get up, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He grasped at his throat desperately as it only closed in tighter, cutting all air off. Someone help me. Help me!

"Chase?"

He could barely register hearing Foreman's voice from outside as he stumbled forward, collapsing onto the floor with a thud.

"Chase! Hang on, I'm coming!"

There was darkness seeping into the edges of his vision, fingers twitching erratically. But the initial panic had faded. His eyes had taken on a glassy look, staring blankly up above as the blurry image of the ceiling faded slowly from view.

It's okay, Cameron, he thought, letting it all fade away. I'll be with you soon.

"Chase! Chase, can you hear me?"

He... he could. He could also hear sirens blaring, the revving motor of a vehicle. But he didn't want to open his eyes just yet, didn't want reality to come flooding in. He'd felt... so close to her. He didn't want to let go. Not yet.

"We're in an ambulance right now, okay? We're taking you to the hospital. You had a bad reaction to something."

He had, hadn't he? There'd been allergens planted in his food. This had been... deliberate.

"Chase, come on, man. Give me something. Please."

He opened his eyes slowly, watching Foreman's concerned face come into focus.

"Thank God," he sighed, leaning back against the wall of the ambulance. "You almost died." He frowned, letting the fact sink in. "Again."

This sat as funny to him, and the corners of his mouth turned up, a strangled laugh escaping.

"What? What is it?" Foreman asked, rushing back over.

He closed his eyes again, folded together on his stomach. "We have a lead."


	5. Chapter 5

Wilson's eyes lit up when he swung the door open and saw Chase, a small smile on his lips. "Hey." His eyes landed on Foreman, confusion setting into his gaze. "And... hi. What's going on, exactly?"

"Chase almost died," the neurologist said, arms crossed. "Eating your food."

Shock flitted across Wilson's face, his eyebrows twisting together. "And you... you think I had something to do with it?"

"I don't know what to think," Foreman said, shaking his head. "You're the closest to House, wouldn't you know anything? Anything?"

Chase could hear the uncharacteristic desperation creeping into his voice. The stakes had risen, whether they liked it or not.

"I didn't poison Chase," Wilson insisted, holding his hands out. "I don't even have strawberries in my apartment right now."

Chase frowned. Strawberries hadn't even been brought up. "But you knew I was allergic."

"Everyone who went to your bachelor party knows!" He had a point there. But that would raise the suspects to... his closest friends. That was not a reality he wanted to face at the moment. "I swear, I would never try to kill you, or anyone for that matter! You can come in and look around if you don't believe me."

Should they? He glanced over at Foreman, who nodded his head, if only slightly. "Okay."

Chase didn't know what he had been expecting. Not a murder house, by any means, but... he didn't expect Wilson's apartment to be so... mundane. Foreman was rifling through the fridge, and he was digging through the kitchen cabinets. Dried pasta, plastic utensils, Tupperware bins... Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Nothing in the fridge," Foreman called, shutting the door.

"Nothing here, either," he replied, standing up. This was a wild goose chase, wasn't it? It was Wilson, for God's sake. If there was anyone he could trust... He paused, watching Foreman disappear into the bedroom. Who could he trust? He had thought he could trust House, but the man had practically killed his wife. Better to not leave any rock unturned.

"I got the study," he said, wandering down the hallway.

"Wait," Wilson started, "you might not want to-"

He had already turned into the room, breath catching in his throat. It was filled to the brim with photos. Photos of Wilson and Amber together at home, on vacation, pictures of just her. It was practically a shrine to the woman. If Chase squinted his eyes, he could nearly imagine the eerily similar photos he had taken with Cameron.

"I'm sorry. I should've warned you."

Chase wandered forward, head turning in a daze. There was no way it was Wilson. There was no way he had anything to do with it. Someone who knew what it was like... No one would want to impart that upon anyone else. He sat on the bed, blinking. "Cameron was right."

Wilson frowned, walking closer. "About what?"

He scanned the pictures again, sighing. "Losing a loved one... It really does screw you up."

Foreman poked his head into the room. "Bedroom's clean. I think that's everything." There was a weariness in his voice, one that told Chase he was worn out by the entire situation, a sentiment he was sure his own face reflected.

"Yeah," Chase mumbled, only half paying attention. "Go on without me. I'll catch up."

The neurologist nodded, and Chase waited until the sounds of his footsteps faded before speaking. "I think I'm finally ready for that talk."

* * *

His whole body was trembling uncontrollably, sweat dripping down his brow. He shouldn't have taken the Vicodin. He had been wrong. He hadn't thrown up out of withdrawal. He'd thrown up out of disgust in himself, in seeing someone he cared about die. This, this was withdrawal.

To top it all off, his leg was on fire. He hadn't gotten up, hadn't moved from the couch all day. The pain was unbearable. He stayed in the break room, eyes glued to the television, and no one bothered trying to move him. Good. Because if anyone had, he'd make them regret being born.

His hand moved autonomously up and down, trying to knead the knotted muscle. It was no use. His eyes were watering, and he squeezed them shut. Nothing would keep the pain at bay. Nothing except...

He glanced down the hall, then back at the television, briefly. He had been sitting here watching the news, waiting to see if there had been anything about Chase.

"President Dibala has been declared dead days after being transferred from Princeton-Plainsboro after tragedy struck their diagnostics team."  
House's eyes snapped back to the television screen, dreading the reporter's next words.

"The African dictator had to be moved after the death of 35 year old doctor Allison Chase, at the hands of-"

The hand that held the remote was shaking, maybe more than the rest of him. His leg somehow hurt even more than a few seconds ago.

"That was about you, wasn't it?"

Go the hell away, he thought, gritting his teeth together, but he didn't speak.

Marcus leaned in closer, frowning. "House, you doing okay?"

Obviously not. Why ask such an idiotic question? "I'm in pain."

"Do you need me to get someone? I can-"

"Just stay out of my way," he growled, pushing past him as he staggered down the hall, the movement stiff and unnatural. He took a wrong step, the jolt of pain sending him crashing to the floor.

"Whoa, hey-" Marcus rushed over to help, bending over.

"I said, stay out of my way!" House yelled, whacking away the hands that reached down.

"Damn. Okay." The man shook his head, turning his back. "Was only trying to help."

As his footsteps receded in the other direction, House continued to drag himself down the hall, the slow, agonizing movement probably looking ridiculous to anyone who dared to spectate.

His mouth was parched, tongue sitting like sandpaper inside of it. He needed to take the pain away.

He stumbled into the med bay, rifling through cabinets with reckless abandon. Gloves, empty syringes, rubber bands? No, the good stuff ought to be locked up. It wouldn't just be here. His eyes darted wildly around the room, searching. The light was dizzyingly bright. Nothing seemed solid anymore. There. Right there. He reached for it, hands missing the combination lock entirely. He was falling. His head smashed into the safe, the rest of his body following limply behind. One shot of morphine. Anything.

His chest heaved up and down, sweaty palms gripping the smooth surface as if it would open it to him. He couldn't think straight anymore. He needed the relief.

"Sir? This is a restricted area..."

There was a figure coming into view, a woman in a white lab coat. House tilted his head up at her, his usually piercing gaze dull and listless. The doctor, he guessed. He caught a glimpse of her face.

A doctor who should be dead. He outstretched a hand, her shape swimming before his eyes, before it all went dark.

* * *

The scene in the diagnostics room was a familiar, yet completely unfamiliar one. Chase was in sweatpants and a hoodie, his hands buried deep in its pockets. Thirteen had evidently come from the gym, still in workout clothes with a light towel draped over her shoulders. Foreman was arguably the most composed looking of the trio, his tieless dress shirt slightly rumpled, starting to untuck itself. If anyone had walked by, they might've thought they were three random patients in a room they weren't supposed to be in.

"Why did you call me here?" Chase asked, frowning at the whiteboard. Symptoms? What was this, a game? Did they drag him over to tell him they'd made a mockery out of his wife's freaking death?

"You can't go home," Foreman said, glancing briefly at the board. "The stakes have been raised."

"I don't think I need a babysitter, thanks," he snapped, turning away.

"Wait, Chase-" He turned his head back at Thirteen. "It's for your own safety. Please hear us out."

"I barely even know you. How am I meant to trust you?" He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. "In fact, how do I know you weren't behind everything?"

"Chase, that's ridiculous," Foreman said, "Thirteen is-"

"Your girlfriend. Which is why you want to believe everything she says. But look at the damn board. She was at my bachelor party. She knows where I live. She would know how to break in. She probably even discouraged you from believing me, right? To get you off the trail."

Thirteen side-eyed Foreman. "Yeah, I get why you're worried now."

Foreman sighed. "Look, we're here to help you. I promise."

Chase scoffed. "Yeah, you are, but how can you be so sure about her?"

"Chase-" Foreman said before Thirteen cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"I get it. You want answers. But you're not gonna get any if you walk out right now."

Chase glanced back a Foreman. If anything happened, it'd be two against one. He hoped. Making eye contact with Thirteen, he pulled out a chair, sitting down. "Fine. But make it quick."

She nodded. "You were right about one thing. I didn't believe you at first. But now that we have more information..." she circled the "symptoms" on the board... "we can start deducing what's going on. The key here isn't necessarily answering which person fits all of the 'symptoms', it's to figure out the reasons behind each one. For example, how would someone know that you're allergic to strawberries?"

Wasn't this already established? "They went to my bachelor party."

"Or," Foreman added, "they have access to your medical records."

Chase turned to look at him, the cogs suddenly turning faster in his head. "There's a third option, too. If they talked to someone who already knew."

Thirteen nodded, scribbling along. "That narrows our options down to... a whole lot of people."

Foreman tilted his head. "Okay, let's start with the first two. The guest list for your bachelor party, and anyone with clearance to look at records."

Both lists were brought out, and they began going down them one by one, checking with everything else on the board. Chase crossed out Foreman's name without a second thought. If he wanted him dead, he would already be. Thirteen was next. His pen hovered over her name, hesitating.

"You don't have to cross me off," she said, nodding at the paper. "I'll prove myself with everyone else."

Chase capped the pen, looking up at her. Interesting sentiment, but it didn't prove her innocence. "Where were you at the time of the murder?"

"At home. Sleeping," she responded, not missing a beat. It was a thin alibi, though. No one could confirm whether or not she was at home that night. And for a woman who hid so much about herself...

"Then you wouldn't mind us checking out your place."

She blinked in surprise, the expression quickly replaced with a thin, measured smile. "Not at all."

* * *

The walls of the room didn't seem solid, rippling and moving like everything else in House's field of vision. He closed his eyes, shutting them tight before opening them again. It was if reality had snapped back into place. He was in the med bay, where he'd passed out. His arm was hooked into... he squinted at the bag. Saline.

He had seen Cameron. The thought was like a dash of cold water, jolting him awake. He scanned the room slowly, searching. There was a doctor here, tending to another patient. Her blonde locks flowed out in a ponytail, but he could already tell from where he lay that she wasn't Cameron. The profile of her face was off.

"Hey," he said in an attempt to get her attention. His voice was weak, raspy, so he tried again. "Hey!"

Well, that got her attention. She turned and came over, a gentle smile plastered on. There was no way it was genuine. She worked with criminals, after all. "How are you feeling?"

"Like crap." Now that the woman was closer, she looked nothing like Cameron. Her face was thinner, more angular. Then... who had he seen? Cameron was dead. He'd seen her body when he was sober. ...Had he been sober? The memories weren't clearly defined anymore, and he tried to shake the thoughts out of his head before the tangled mess in his head got worse. "Where's the other doctor?"

"Other doctor?" She was puzzled by the notion, leaning closer. "I'm the only one who works here. Kelly Anderson, by the way. I haven't seen you around before."

"Greg House." He craned his neck, studying the facility again. It was small. Quaint. Didn't seem to have much besides the slimmest offerings. It must've been extraordinarily difficult to heal anyone with this equipment. "What's your specialty?"

"I actually studied pediatrics," she said, checking his vitals. "You're a doctor?"

"Diagnostics and infectious disease. How'd you end up in this dump?"

"I can help people here."

Yeah, right. "That's why you're a doctor. It doesn't say why you're here specifically. The guys here are a far stretch from children." Was she running away from something? "Let me guess. You're here because no one else would hire you."

She stiffened, and House could tell he had hit a nerve. "I did what I needed to." The warmth had been sucked out of her voice. "And no, before you ask, I haven't committed some sort of heinous crime."

"Framed for one, then."

"I'm here because I want to be," she said, but the tight-lipped smile on her face told him otherwise. "You're clear to go."

House tugged out his IV, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Can't be easy running this place alone." The clinic was a good resource. If he could get a foot in here...

"The sentiment is appreciated, Dr. House, but I get by just fine." The icy, clipped words that left her mouth barely resembled the previously warm tone.

He watched her walk away, the knuckles on the hand that clutched the clipboard white with effort. Interesting.

* * *

Thirteen unlocked the door to her apartment, letting it swing open the smallest amount. "There. It's open. Look around to your heart's content," she said, gesturing to the opening.

The woman was suspicious as hell. Who knew what would be behind that door? He could be walking into a death trap. Ignoring the alarm bells in his head, Chase pushed the door open further, revealing the apartment within.

"Keep an eye on her, Foreman," he warned, before stepping in. The man reluctantly complied, linking his arm with Thirteen's. The apartment was plain. Almost too plain. It resembled a set-up at a furniture store more than a space where someone actually lived. Whereas Wilson's apartment had traces of his personality scattered around, Thirteen's was bare, stripped down, as if she was hiding her presence from someone.

"This is really her place?" Chase asked, looking at the walls. A still life bowl of fruit hung on one, unremarkable in any way.

"Yeah. It's really her place," Foreman confirmed, looking about as home as Thirteen did. They'd been together for a while now, after all. Chase wondered if he opened a drawer in the bedroom, he would find Foreman's clothes neatly lined out, just as his did at Cameron's place before they had moved in together. Things had felt simpler then.

He pulled open the fridge, freezing in place. It was practically in the center of the refrigerator. A carton of strawberries, about half of them missing from the container.

She had seen as well, and had similarly stopped in her tracks. "I know this looks bad." Foreman had stiffened, tightening his grip.

"It looks more than _bad_ ," Chase hissed, shutting the fridge door.

"They were in season," she said, each word carefully measured. "I bought them for post-workout smoothies. That's it."

"Right, and that along with your alibi that can't be proved. I'm calling the damn police." He pulled out his phone, preparing to dial.

"Wait!" Her eyes were wide. "I can prove my alibi."

He lowered the phone slightly, raising an eyebrow. How would you ever prove if you were home sleeping or not?

"I wasn't alone that night." She took a deep breath, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe herself. "I had a one night stand over."

Betrayal shone in Foreman's eyes, and he stepped away from her, shaking his head in disbelief. "How _could_ you?"

"You'd just fired me. I was looking for someone to drown it out," she said, her eyes never leaving Chase. "I don't know her name, but I could pick her out of a lineup if I had to."

Foreman grabbed her wrist. "Remy."

She ignored him, continuing. "I hope that's enough proof for you."


	6. Chapter 6

There were only two people in the diagnostics room now. Foreman's head was lowered over the table, and he seemed to stare straight through it. His shoulders were slumped, eyes rarely blinking.

Chase had taken the same seat he had been in earlier, capped pen in his hand. This list wasn't going to get them anywhere. They had to find a way to cut down further on possible suspects. The information they had wasn't enough.

"I can't believe she cheated on me."

Chase glanced over at him, scoffing. "She didn't cheat on you. You _fired_ her. And plus, it could be worse. She could've been a murderer."

Foreman stood up. "I made a mistake. It doesn't excuse what she did. Are you _trying_ to get me to leave you alone? Because the point still stands. You're not safe right now."

"Like any of us are."

Foreman's stony expression did not shift in any discernible way. "Either way, I'm staying with you tonight."

Chase sighed, shrugging. "Fine." He really just wanted everyone to leave him alone, wanted to hide in his bed. Wanted to pretend, for maybe a moment, that she was still with him. But he got in the car anyway, let Foreman follow him home, threw a blanket on the couch for him.

Foreman sat on the couch, almost unmoving, back stiff as a board. His face seemed devoid of all emotion, eyes staring straight ahead.

Chase wondered if he should say something. Foreman was technically a guest, after all. He turned away, shaking his head. Nah. He could take care of himself.

He crawled into bed and wrapped the sheets around himself, closing his eyes. But sleep wouldn't come. Thoughts kept swimming around his head, echoing. How would he find the culprit? Had Thirteen told the truth? Why wouldn't House tell him anything? Had he even tried to stop it? Did Cameron think about him when she died?

He sighed, rolling over to look at the empty half of the bed. He wished she was here so he could hold her, talk to her. When he had spoken to Wilson, Wilson had said that he talked to Amber before he slept, just as a way to get his thoughts out. Maybe Cameron wasn't so far after all.

Chase tried to picture her figure curled up beside him, hair draped around her face in an unorganized mess. She'd be looking at him, wondering what he was thinking, fingers intertwined under the blankets.

He took a deep breath, gazing wistfully at where her face would be. "I'm sorry I didn't save you," he whispered, eyes welling up. He wiped the tears away, blinking. "I love you."

* * *

House strolled into the clinic without invitation, walking up right behind Dr. Anderson. She didn't notice him entering, preoccupied with the same patient he had seen yesterday. He was coughing violently, shaking as she tried to settle him.

"What's he got?"

She glanced quickly behind herself, eyes darting back once she realized who it was. "COPD."

House looked the man over. He seemed to be in pain, bent over and grimacing with each successive cough. "Looks like bronchitis, too. You ought to start him on antibiotics."

She looked back at him, giving a curt nod. "Thanks." She went to go get a bag, hanging it up on the rack. "You were right about me."  
House tilted his head, sitting down on the next cot over.

"I was framed for statutory rape," she said, looking down. "And, well, no one wants their children to be treated by someone charged with that. Even if I was declared innocent."

House shrugged. "I'm assuming 'charged with child rape' still looks better than 'actually commits child rape' on a resume. Though I'm sure there's somewhere you could go where no one knows who you are."

She sighed, shaking her head. "These kinds of things follow you. There's nowhere I could go where people wouldn't find out eventually."

"But you didn't do it," he pointed out, turning his head to look at her.

She laughed. "No one cares. They only care about how it looks. Imagine being 27 and unable to find a job."

"Imagine giving up on life at 27."

She frowned, glaring up at him. "What was I supposed to do? I applied for everything vaguely medical in a 50 mile radius from where I lived. I got one application back."

"You apply for Princeton-Plainsboro?"

Confusion seeped into her gaze. "Yeah...? Why bring it up?"

Of course Cuddy wouldn't take her. She was always too much of a law-abider. "No reason." He got off the bed, limping to the door. "Try again. You'll know when you've run out of chances."

* * *

When Chase got up that morning, Foreman was already dressed and at the kitchen table, sipping on a glass of water. "Morning."

Foreman nodded in response, but his eyes didn't leave their downward trajectory to the table. He didn't look like he had gotten much sleep, either. Probably had spent hours thinking about Thirteen instead.

Chase poured himself a bowl of cereal, pausing. Foreman probably hadn't eaten. Sighing, he poured a second bowl, sliding it across the table to the neurologist. "I'm sorry about Thirteen."

Foreman shrugged, picking up a spoonful of cereal. "It's not a big deal." He held the spoon in the air for a moment before dropping it back into the bowl, the contents untouched. "We should search this house."

Chase swallowed the bite he was eating, raising an eyebrow. " _I_ didn't kill Cameron."

Foreman nodded, stirring his bowl of cereal absently. "I know, but maybe the killer left some clues behind when they tampered with your food."

Chase frowned, putting his spoon down. "We're not the police. We can't just forensics the place and find fingerprints and whatnot."

"Maybe we don't need to." Foreman looked up, making eye contact. "It's worth a shot."

Chase scanned the room. Anything would get them a step closer. And whoever had come in had probably left clues. He nodded. "Okay."

* * *

The sounds of their footsteps echoed back and forth as they paced the wall of the visitor's room, eyes frenzied.

House was on the other side of the glass, hands folded on the counter. His expression was flat, eyes looking straight ahead at them. There was no longer any fear in his gaze.

* * *

"Hey, look at this," Chase said, picking up a hair from under the fridge. It was short, dark. There wasn't a chance that it had come from either of the inhabitants of the house.

Foreman put it in a bag, nodding. "Could belong to our culprit."

* * *

They stopped walking, stopping in front of the counter, but refused to sit down. This wasn't anything like the last time they had visited. Something had changed. They weren't gloating. No one was dead. Relief swept through his chest, paired with a sudden confidence. House tilted his head, looking up at them.

"They're closing in on you."

* * *

Chase scoffed when he opened the fridge, looking at the rest of the lasagna that he had yet to throw out. "Our murderer has crappy wrapping skills. I don't know how I didn't notice earlier."

Foreman walked up with a notepad, looking at the wrapping job. "I guess I'll write down 'no culinary experience'?"

Chase shrugged. "It's something." For the first time in this journey, they had started piecing together the idea of who they were looking for.

* * *

House laughed, a single chuckle of astonishment. "You're here looking for more help to kill off my team because you're scared they'll find you." He leaned back in the chair, relaxed. "You don't have any more chips in this game. If you kill Wilson, I wouldn't help you anymore, and they'd find you. If you don't, they might find you anyway." A slight grin spread across his face. "I've won, Jackson."

Deranged laughter erupted on the other side of the glass, shaking Jackson's entire body before he abruptly stopped, slamming his hands on the counter.

"That's rich. You haven't won anything. You're entitled, you're manipulative, you're miserable anyway. You don't give a damn about human life unless it's convenient for you. And you've trained your team to be just like you." He sat down, leaning forward.

"You've dragged them all down. And now they'll die for it." He laughed bitterly. "Sure, I'll get caught. But it sure as hell won't be by your fellows." He got up, a twisted smile adorning his features. "Just you wait."

* * *

Chase could already feel the heat of the flames beating down on him from where he stood, the bright tongues leaping from the walls of the building, plumes of smoke twisting into the sky. He coughed on the hazy air, blindly stumbling after Foreman as he wiped the tears from his irritated eyes. The fire had spread unbelievably fast. He hadn't expected it to already be this bad.

They shouldn't have left Thirteen alone. Especially not after all they had been through. It had been a sarcastic quip, one that had come out of his frustration. 'Like any of us are.' And now her apartment building was on fire.

Foreman had tagged down a nearby fireman, the sweat on his brow shining in the light of the flames. "My girlfriend lives here," he gasped, breath catching in his throat. "Please- do you know a Remy Hadley?"

The firefighter shrugged, turning briefly to bark out some orders. "You can check the people that have already been pulled out. Aside from that, I don't know. We're doing our best to get people out."

Without a second's hesitation, Foreman turned and ran toward the line of ambulances, peering into each one, coming up empty each time. Chase glanced at the burning building, gut twisting. She could already be dead. The flames could be slowly converging on her body, threatening to turn it to ashes. But then he saw.

She was being carried out on a stretcher, body limply jolting around with its movements. Foreman ran over to her side, trailing the stretcher as it was carried into an ambulance. Chase wiped away the strands of hair stuck to his forehead, watching the neurologist jump into the back without a second thought.

He put his fingers up to her neck, hand over her face. "She's breathing, but it's shallow. She's not responsive. Pulse thready," his voice was raw, eyes meeting Chase's. The paramedics pushed him out of the way, quickly hooking Thirteen up to various machines around the ambulance.

Foreman jumped out of the ambulance, Chase stepping out of the way as he grabbed onto the nearest firefighter, breathing heavily. "Do you know what happened?"

The man stepped back, lifting his gloved hands. "Look, man, I'm sorry, but right now we're just working on putting out this fire and getting people out safely." He looked over at the paramedics who were getting out, preparing to shut the door. "If you want to be in that ambulance when it leaves, you'd better go now."

Foreman shook his head in resignation, climbing back in, Chase following. They sat at the side, hunched over as the engine started and the ambulance started to drive away.

Foreman was frozen, eyes wide, almost seeming to bug out of his head. He was hyperventilating, breaths coming in short rapid bursts, hands squeezed together in his lap. Chase averted his eyes, finding solace in the emotionless steel walls. The face he was making, the pain in his eyes... it was too familiar.

"It wasn't an accident," the neurologist whispered, gaze not moving from the point on the floor.

"I know." Chase looked back, blinking. With a sigh, he moved a little closer, putting an arm over the man's shoulders, whatever shred of comfort it might've brought. There was something else, something darker eating away at him, though. He was jealous. Jealous that Thirteen gotten to live while Cameron hadn't. But that wasn't Foreman's fault. He couldn't take it out on him.

It was House's fault. Without him, they wouldn't be in this mess. They wouldn't have to fear for their lives. They wouldn't have to deal with the loss or almost loss of a loved one.

He looked at Foreman in a catatonic state, looked at Thirteen, clinging onto the shreds of life. Maybe God just hated him.

* * *

House sat in front of the TV numbly, watching the fire rage before his eyes, the reporter lady spouting off words he didn't bother listening to. All of this was his fault. Cameron, Chase, Thirteen... he couldn't save them. Not anymore. He hadn't stopped himself. Maybe he really couldn't see anyone happy. Jackson was right. He was a mess, tearing down anyone who tried to get close. He couldn't help any of them, couldn't help Wilson now even if he wanted to, when he was stuck behind bars.

Without thinking, he limped to the infirmary, a faked joviality to his step. "Doctor Anderson!" he called out, smiling. "There's a man collapsed in the East wing. You'd better go. I can look after everything while you're gone."

She nodded, rushing out. "Thanks for letting me know."

House waited until she was gone, grabbing a nearby stethoscope and kneeling in front of the safe. No one was watching. The patient was asleep. Not that it mattered whether or not anyone was watching. He cracked it open quickly, limber fingers twisting the dial. He had been right. The good stuff was in here.

He grabbed at the containers, some falling out, rolling on the ground. He popped the top on one of the Vicodin's, the arm that held it shaking. He was worthless. A burden. Worse. An antagonizer. It didn't matter whether or not they'd find Jackson, whether or not he'd ever get out. He'd never be forgiven.

He tipped the bottle over, swallowing with reckless abandon.


	7. Chapter 7

They had gone back to the diagnostics room, seated at the table again. Foreman's head was down, slumped over, defeated. Chase wanted nothing more for it to all be over. The adrenaline had faded and he had never felt more worn out. He wasn't a detective. He wasn't a police officer. He just was a doctor. A widower before he even hit 40. He looked at the board. The words were taunting him, mocking him. There was a person hiding behind those words, someone who had killed his wife, tried to kill him, tried to kill a colleague... He leaned in closer, frowning. But if he _was_ a detective...

"There's something we haven't tried," Chase said, looking back suddenly.

Foreman raised his head, if only slightly. "What's that?"

A faint grin danced on his lips. "How do you fancy a trip to House's apartment?"

* * *

The trip to the crime scene was made wordlessly, the two shambling up to the door without anyone noticing or caring. The door was covered in yellow tape. 'POLICE LINE- DO NOT CROSS'. Chase ripped it away, tossing it to the side. She'd stood in front of this door before she died. She'd been here the last time he'd heard her voice, the last time he told her he loved her.

Foreman nudged him out of the way to pick the lock, hand pausing on the doorknob. With a deep breath, he opened it, taking only a step in before stopping.

"What? What is it?" Chase tried to peer over him, his body blocking the entrance.

But Foreman stood firm, hands gripping the doorframe, preventing his colleague from entering.

What was he doing? Anger coursed through Chase's veins, heat rising to his face. He needed to get in, needed to figure out the case, needed to get some closure on everything, anything. He grabbed onto the neurologist, shoving him roughly to the side as he pushed his way through, stumbling into the darkened room.

The smell hit him first. The stench of iron permeated the air, dizzyingly strong as it filled his nostrils. Then he saw. Blood splattered the walls, on the floor, the majority culminated on one spot, soaked into the carpet. He was trembling uncontrollably, couldn't breathe. It was hers. All of it.

He grabbed onto the doorframe, pulling himself outside, collapsing on the doorstep. He hugged his knees to his chest, heart threatening to beat out of it. He felt like he was suffocating. It was so much worse than anything he could've imagined. Even though he knew what had happened, actually seeing the crime scene... it was too much. He was faintly aware of Foreman taking a seat beside him, leaning up against the wall.

"I can't do it," he said, voice breaking. "I can't."

Foreman nodded, head tilted back. They sat silently for a moment, before he took a deep breath, sighing. "I'm going to go back in."

Chase whipped his head around., staring up at him through teary eyes in disbelief. He couldn't be serious.

Foreman stood up, brushing himself off. "Just stay here." There was a softness in his gaze, one Chase hadn't ever seen before. "I'll be back soon."

He saw him leave through his peripheral vision, re-entering the building. Chase squeezed his knees as if he was trying to hold himself together, trying not to let himself fall apart. But it kept flashing before his eyes. Her blood on the floor. Just breathe, he tried to tell himself. But he was still shaking, his eyes tightly closed. The last thing she'd seen. He couldn't. Foreman needed him, Thirteen needed him... Cameron needed him. He had to solve it. But he couldn't. He couldn't even breathe. He'd never felt more useless.

He blinked away the tears that had formed, forcing himself to take a shaky breath. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly, he started breathing again, trying desperately to relax, slow his heart rate. It'd been a while, now. At least it felt like a while. He furrowed his brow, turning his head toward the open door. He couldn't hear Foreman anymore. He pulled himself to his feet, sticking his head into the doorway.

"Foreman?" No answer. He caught a whiff of the inside again, trying his hardest to hold the nausea down. "Foreman!" He still couldn't hear anything. Cold, icy dread clawed its way around his heart. The last time he had felt like this Cameron had died. He wasn't making the same mistake twice. He had to go back.

Holding his breath, he stepped in again cautiously, trying to step around the blood. The couch. He stopped in his tracks, turning to look at it. That was her purse. Her phone. Blood was smeared over the device, a handprint on the upholstery of the couch. Cameron. She had tried to call. His hands were balled into fists, arms shaking. He- why didn't he- he could've-

That wasn't her handprint. Against all instincts, he knelt down, leaning closer. No, it was way too big. House's. The memory flashed through his head. House had called him, had told him that she was fine. His eyes followed the trail back to the pool of blood, a wrinkled blanket discarded to the side, darkened with blood as well. She'd already been dead when he called. She'd- His breath had quickened, the attempt to hold it completely forgotten. He stumbled back, knocking over a lamp. It crashed to the floor, the bulb inside shattering.

"Chase?" The neurologist rushed out from a room, biohazard bag in hand. His eyebrows were wrinkled in concern. "Why'd you come back in?"

Because I thought you were dead, he thought, annoyed. "You didn't answer."

Foreman nodded, letting the statement sink in. There was a guilty shine in his eyes, but his voice was even, calm. "I guess I'll show you what I've figured out." He walked over to the wall, pointing at one of the splatters. "Whoever killed Cameron was taller than her, but shorter than House."

Chase nodded, but refused to turn his head to look. Just the information was good enough. He didn't need to... didn't want to see again.

"Chase, it's blood. You're a surgeon," Foreman said, irked.

"It's _her_ blood," he snapped, eyes still looking at the same clean patch of carpet.

"Right, but you of all people should understand that sometimes we need to face unpleasant things in order to help other people. Look- I cannot begin to imagine the scope of your loss, but if you really care about solving this case... if you really want to find who killed your wife... you're not gonna do it by staring at the ground."

Chase glared at him, stepping in. "Thanks for the sympathy," he spat. "It's almost like she's not even dead."

Foreman got in closer, their faces now only inches apart. "There are times for sympathy. And there are times where you need to get your damn head out from between your legs and do something."

Chase held his gaze for a moment, nodding. He had to be strong. For her. "Show me what you found."

* * *

House snapped his eyes open to a featureless cement ceiling. Damn it. Damn it! He tore away from the dingy bed, stumbling to the wall. The room was tiny, the bed taking up half the space. Not only was he still alive, he was also in solitary confinement. That doctor... why couldn't she just happen to be an imbecile? He pounded his fists on the wall, yelling out.

He was useless. Trapped in a tiny box. Couldn't even off himself properly. He kept punching the wall, ignoring the pain that shot through his hand with each successive blow. A failure. Met with a puzzle that he couldn't figure out. Faced with impossible choices yet every single one he made was wrong.

Drained, he slid down the wall, collapsing at the bottom. Suffering is better than nothing. That's what he always told himself. But there had always been something to live for, something to figure out. He had nothing now. And he was taking everything away from everyone else, too. Just let me die, he thought, lying on the ground. I don't want to live anymore.

* * *

Chase stood in the bedroom, tapping his forehead, running through what they knew about the killer in his head. Short, dark hair. Around 5'8". Probably male. Should have a solid enough build to overpower Cameron. And she wasn't weak, either, he thought, remembering when she had shoved him into a pool on their honeymoon.

"There's blood on the bed," Foreman noted, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Chase looked at it, glancing briefly back into the living room. There was no trail of drops, no drag marks. "It's not hers."

Foreman nodded. "Looks old, too. Like it's been here a while."

Then it could only be one person's. "Our killer was beating on House way before he even cared about us." It wasn't just some attempt to hurt as many people as possible, it was personal. A longstanding grudge, maybe. He just wasn't sure how far back they'd have to look.

* * *

Later that day, Chase lay on the couch, mulling over what they knew. It was enough. Enough to warrant an investigation. Everything they'd done had led up to this. He picked up his phone, dialing the non-emergency police number. A faint click on the other end.

"Princeton Police Department. How can I help you today?"

"Hi, I'm, uh, calling about my wife. She was killed five days ago," the end of the sentence caught in his throat, Chase barely managing to choke it out.

A short hesitance of silence. "What was her name?"

His eyes floated back to the wedding photo. "Allison Cam-" He cut himself off, realizing. "Chase."

Another pause. "Hang on a moment, let me bring the case up." He could hear audible clicking on the other end. "Yeah, I think I found her. What's the purpose of the call?"

He ran through the facts in his head again, the events of the last few days. "I have some information about the murderer."

Silence. "Yeah, uh... I'm sorry, sir, this case is closed. The murderer's already behind bars."

Panic shot through his system. "No, you don't understand- It's not who you think it is-"

"Sir, we had a confession. Innocent people don't tend to confess for crimes they didn't commit."

"Please-"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Chase, but I can't help you."

Chase had sat up, breathing heavily, didn't even bother trying to correct him. He needed the police. They couldn't just close a case and move on. The person who killed Cameron was still out there. Without them, he would never be brought to justice.

"I'm sorry about your loss. There are resources out there, if you want me to refer them."

"No thanks." All his hopes had been riding on this call. Hopes that had been swatted away without a second thought. He didn't know where to go from here.

"Have a nice day, then." Click.

That was it, then. The end of everything. He looked at the picture again, their smiling faces a stark contrast to what he was feeling now. Despair was creeping in, engulfing him, and he felt himself breaking down, powerless against his own emotions as he sobbed into his hands, time melting away. He'd failed her. He'd failed to save her, and now he'd failed to track down the person who took her away from him. The call had just been the last straw.

Someone was knocking on the door. Wiping away tears haphazardly, he moved over to it, unlocking it through blurred vision.

"Hey, I forgot-" Foreman stopped in the middle of his sentence when he saw him, mouth still hanging open slightly. "Chase."

He didn't care. Didn't care in the least how much of a mess he was, didn't care if Foreman saw, didn't care about what he was about to say.

The arms around him came as a surprise, eyes opening wide as he tried to process what just happened. Foreman was... hugging him? It was the embrace he didn't know he needed, and stunned, he returned it, the tears starting up again.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning they sat at the table again, staring at identical untouched bowls of cereal, wondering why they were even poured in the first place. It's not like anyone had an appetite.

"The police really turned you down, huh?"

"Mhm," Chase responded, not bothering to look up from the cereal pieces that were quickly becoming soggy.

Foreman was frowning intently into his bowl, to the point that a passerby might've thought they were having a competition to stare their cereal down. "That can't just be it, though. There's gotta be something we can still do."

Chase scoffed. "Does it matter anymore? We tried. We failed. It happens."

Foreman looked up at him incredulously. "Sorry, which one of us was married to Cameron again?"

Chase looked back at him sadly, the life sucked out of his eyes. "Maybe the killer is coming for me. Maybe they're coming for you. But maybe I don't care either way. Nothing we do will bring Cameron back. Nothing will change what's already happened."

"So you're just giving up?" Foreman demanded, anger creeping into his voice.

"I'm moving on," Chase declared, getting up. "I've realized we can't change anything. Something you should have already figured out"

"Moving on from Cameron?" Foreman asked, the confused lines in his face furrowing deeper. "She's been dead less than a week."

"I'm moving on from the damn investigation!" How could he even imply that he was over Cameron? "I just-" He looked away. "I want some time. I haven't even gotten the chance to properly grieve."

Foreman nodded, deep in thought before he suddenly sat up straighter, eyes widening. "Lucas."

Chase frowned. "What?"

"The private investigator House hired to spy on Wilson."

"Foreman, I just said-"

But the neurologist was grinning. "Don't tell me you're not even a little bit curious what we'd find."

Chase stopped, shrugging, but a slight smile danced on his lips regardless. "Let's go talk to Cuddy."

* * *

Cuddy almost dropped the phone she was holding when they walked into her office, quickly letting whoever was on the other end know that she would call them back. Putting the phone away, she folded her hands on her desk, a hesitant smile on her face. "You're back," she said, rapidly blinking eyes giving away her surprise.

Foreman nodded. "We need your help."

Chase stepped forward. "Foreman mentioned a guy, Lucas. Said he was an investigator."

Cuddy blinked, confused. "Why do you need an investigator?"

"Because... House didn't kill Cameron." He could see the furrows in her brow creasing deeper at the statement. "We've been investigating, trying to figure what really happened."

She looked over at Foreman, doubt shining in her eyes. "And you support this?"

He nodded. "We believe House isn't responsible for Cameron's death. We'd like to find the perpetrator."

Cuddy sighed in resignation, tucking a lock of hair behind an ear. "Well, If you're looking for Lucas, he should be-"

The door suddenly swung open, a man walking in jovially. In his right hand a paper bag was clutched, a smile across his stubbled face. "Hey babe," he said, leaning in to kiss Cuddy on the cheek, placing the bag on her desk. Chase had no idea who he was.

Foreman, on the other hand, was stunned. "Cuddy, you're..."

She smiled. "Dating Lucas, yes." She looked up at him, affection shining in her eyes. "Thanks for bringing lunch."

That was Lucas, huh? He didn't look like much of an investigator. But... according to Foreman, he was more capable than he looked. Chase supposed he could give him a chance.

Lucas smiled back at her, bouncing slightly on his heels. "Yeah, totally. Anyway, I'm gonna get-"

"Doctor Chase and Foreman want to talk to you."

Lucas stopped in his tracks, looking back at them. "Oh, yeah, sure, what's up?"

Chase smirked, crossing his arms. "You ever catch a murderer?"

"I mean..." he tilted his head thoughtfully. "There was this one time where one guy had this issue with..." he trailed off, looking at the blank faces of everyone else in the room. He cleared his throat. "No. No, I haven't."

Foreman was visibly less amused by his antics than Chase was, brow lowered. "Here's what we know."

They went over the information quickly, Lucas listening intently as he scribbled down notes, the crease in Cuddy's brow deepening as she heard about everything they'd found, everything they'd done.

When they finished, Lucas grinned, looking up from his notes. "Give me five hours. I'll get you a guy."

* * *

They were the longest five hours of Chase's life. He was tapping his fingers on the coffee table impatiently, wondering. Wondering if it was someone they knew. Wondering if Lucas would find the person at all. Wondering if-

The sound of the doorbell ringing snapped him out of his thoughts, and he ran over to the door, unlatching it.

Lucas held out a Manila folder, a cheeky grin on his face. "Got your guy."

Chase took it from him, squeezing the folder tight. "Thanks." The truth was in here, hopefully. The person who killed Cameron. The answers to the questions that-

"That'll be $5000."

Chase blinked at him in disbelief. Was he supposed to have that kind of money? Funeral planning aside, that was a ridiculous-

"Oh right, you're the one with the dead wife, right?" Lucas stammered sheepishly, a guilty smile spreading across his face. "Yeah, it's on the house. Heh. Get it? Because-" He stopped, stepping back. "I'll show myself out. Even though I'm not in. I- yeah, I'm gonna go." He stumbled away awkwardly, half jogging back to his car before driving away.

Chase went back in, sitting down on the couch. That was it, then. They had a culprit. He placed the folder on the coffee table, taking a deep breath, then flipping it open.

Stuart Jackson, age 43. He stared down at the enclosed picture, the man's face staring blankly back at him. He looked... frankly, unremarkable. Nothing screamed out 'I'm a killer'. , White male, thinning dark hair on his head. Average build, average height. Hang on... he's a surgeon? Chase blinked twice at the line, making sure he didn't read it wrong. No. He _was_ a surgeon. And at the bottom of the sheet... an address. He pulled out his phone, tapping in Foreman's number.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, uh... want to do something stupid?"

* * *

"I can't believe I agreed to this," Foreman muttered as they got out of the car. "This guy has killed people."

"What else are we meant to do?" Chase asked, walking up the front steps. "The police won't help us. The only thing we can do is to try and be prepared."

"How prepared are you for a shotgun blast to the face?"

Chase stopped in front of the door, taking a deep breath. "If he kills me, you're a witness. And when the police come, tell them everything."

Foreman's eyes widened as he realized the implications of the statement. "You're willing to die to put this guy behind bars? Chase, you can't-"

But the gaze in his eyes was steely, unwavering. "I'm willing to do whatever it takes. Are you?" He was well aware of the insanity of all of this even as the words left his mouth. But this was it. What they'd had been working up to. And he wasn't backing down. No matter the cost. "Because, if you've changed your mind, you can leave."

Foreman shook his head, looking down. "Ring the damn bell."

And so he did. And they waited for the door to open with bated breath.

* * *

Chase took long, gasping breaths, clutching his left shoulder as blood seeped between his fingers, trickles of it running down the cast on his right hand. What had- what had just happened? It had only been a few seconds, he-

The culprit had opened the door. He had recognized his face from the photo, and a similar look of recognition had dawned upon the other man.  
Then he had shot him.

It felt like his arm was getting torn off from the inside, and he let out a groan, rolling over on the ground.

Foreman had- Foreman had run forward when he had gotten knocked down. Chase remembered seeing him tackle the man. Then a second shot had rung out, bits of plaster raining around them. Bits that coated his body now, a thin sheet of dust like powdered sugar. Then a third shot. Then silence.

"Oh my God..." It was a whisper, and Chase could see Foreman's shape crawling back toward him, his chest heaving up and down. "Chase... Chase, are you okay?"

The bleeding hadn't slowed much, despite his best efforts, the drops splattering the pavement around him. "I'm alive, yeah. Missed my heart by a bit." He smiled weakly at him. "Guess that's why he's not a surgeon anymore. It's basic anatomy."

Foreman didn't care much for the joke, eyes still wide. "Chase... he shot himself."

Against his instincts, his eyes wandered over to the doorframe, where the limp body of their culprit lay, the splat of blood and brain matter partially visible even from where he was sprawled out.

His expression hardened. For a horrible brief moment he could see House's apartment again, covered in Cameron's blood. This monster did that to her. This monster tried to kill him. This monster burned down Thirteen's building. It was only fair that he was dead. Foreman was dialing 911 in the background, giving a brief rundown of what had happened.

Chase pulled himself up into a sitting position, pulling off his shirt to cover the wound. It was over. This whirlwind of madness, this unpredictable tornado of grief and pain. And as the ambulance carried him away for the second time that week, he looked up at the ceiling, a slight smile on his face. I did it, Allison, he thought. If only you were here to see it.


	9. Chapter 9

Foreman stared over at his colleague getting stitched up in the ER, fingers dancing on his knee. It was weird; he almost expected Cameron to still be hiding in some corner of the room, popping out to fuss over her husband, telling him he should've been more careful. It was a miracle they had both come out of the encounter alive, frankly. They'd been lucky.

Thirteen. Her name suddenly ran through his head, and he glanced over his shoulder down the hall. She'd still been unconscious the last time he had visited. He should go check on her. He looked over at Chase again. The man seemed lost in his own world, so he got up without saying anything, walking down the hall to her room.

His heart was pounding in his chest just looking at her. He couldn't help feeling like it was his fault she was here. He'd left her alone, susceptible to whatever the hell the killer had wanted. But he'd felt betrayed. He still felt betrayed. But... it just didn't seem to matter as much anymore. As long as she was okay. He looked away. She was okay, right?

She's been out for days, idiot. What part of that says okay to you? Okay. She's not okay. He leaned his head against the glass of the wall, staring at the ground outside.

"You're... you're here?"

He spun around, eyes wide. She was sitting up, looking as if she'd just been blown through a tornado. Her hair was a mess, face pale and sunken in, dark rings under her eyes. But she was awake. She was awake. The happiness bloomed inside his chest, heart jumping up.

"Look..." she started, pushing a few loose strands of hair out of her face. "I'm sorry- mmph!" She let out a muffled sound of surprise as he crashed his lips into hers, kissing her as if he would never get the chance to again. He could feel her recoiling for a second, before she threw her arms around his neck, deepening the embrace.

He stepped back, breathless. He didn't care what happened that night. He just wanted her with him. And he could tell she was relieved, as a stunned smile lit up her face. "You'll probably need a place to stay now, huh?"

"Yeah," she said, laughing. "But I think I've got a good idea about where."

* * *

The next morning, Chase stared at his reflection in the mirror, blinking. Today was the day. He'd washed his hair, shaved his face, put on a suit. He looked okay. Hopefully good enough. Hang on... He ran a comb through his hair a few more times, trying to make sure not a single strand was out of place. The comb fell out of his fingers, clattering to the ground. He wasn't ready. Not at all. After all, how ready could someone be for his wife's funeral?

But time was ticking away, and he had to be there. So, taking a deep breath, he left his house, got in his car, and drove to the event.

The place was swarmed with people, a lot of which Chase didn't even recognize. She had an impact on a ton of people, didn't she? It wasn't a surprise at him. He didn't know anyone kinder. An older couple rushed up to greet him, the woman throwing her arms around him.

"Robert!"

"Hey." He returned the hug, instinctively turning his head away from the ensuing cloud of perfume. Cameron's parents. Her mother broke away from him, smiling through her tears.

"I'm so glad you could make it." Of course he was going to make it. He had practically planned the entire event. "Oh, I still can't believe that our little girl..." she trailed off, dabbing at her eyes.

Chase nodded, Cameron's father stepping up to shake his hand. "Good to see you, son." He looked over at the crowd that had gradually gathered, surveying the event. "You did good."

"Thanks."

After exchanging a few more quick greetings, he sat down with the other guests, waiting for the funeral to start, trying to keep his composure.

* * *

House's heart was thumping away at an unnaturally quick pace, staring up at the podium as the service went on. He felt out of place, like an impostor. He'd seen the others, Cuddy, Wilson. He'd intentionally picked a seat where they wouldn't see him. But soon they all would. This darn priest was talking forever. Of course Chase would hire one, the idiot. This man didn't know Cameron, didn't care about her. He probably recited the same moronic speech at every single funeral he was hired to speak at.

"Does anyone have some words they'd like to say about the deceased?" House scoffed. The man probably didn't even know her name. But it was his time to shine.

He walked up to the podium, tilting the microphone toward himself. He could already hear confused whispers, could see Cuddy preparing to leap out of her seat at a moment's notice.

He waited for the static to fade before leaning in. "Hi. Some of you may know me. Some of you may recognize me as a killer. So let's set the record straight. He took a deep breath, the audience watching him with confused stares.

"I killed Allison Cameron." The statement ripples through the crowd, and Cuddy, betrayed anger spreading across her face, rose to her feet. "I didn't hold the knife that killed her. I didn't lure her into a trap. But she's dead because of me." Cuddy's face went slack, her eyes widening with realization. "Cameron... Cameron cared. About almost everyone she ever came across. She cared about me. She cared too damn much." He grabbed the microphone tighter, static screeching through the air. "Allison Cameron was an idiot. She didn't leave when I told her to because of her- because of the caring! And I couldn't save her!" He staggered back, breathing heavily. The crowd was hushed, almost seemingly afraid of the words coming out of his mouth. "I didn't do a damn thing."

Cuddy had made her way up to the stage, standing in front of him silently. Tears were in her eyes, sorrow behind them. What was she going to do now? There wasn't anything anyone could take away now. Hit me if you want. Berate me. Scream.

But she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder, holding him to this plane. Her presence was... comforting, familiar, and he felt his heart beating faster, for once, not for something he dreaded. "It's okay, House. It's okay."

* * *

"So that's it, then?" Wilson asked, as they stood off to the side of the shifting crowd.

House nodded. "That's it." The rays of the sun on his body felt oddly foreign, as if he was never meant to leave prison again. But it was over. It was finally over.

"So you didn't kill Cameron."

"Nope." He basically had. He wasn't sure why Wilson was forgiving him. It had to be something related to his unwaveringly soft personality. Trying to see the best in him. The best that wasn't even there.

Wilson glanced away for a moment, mouth twisting up in thought. "You wouldn't really have killed her to save me, would you?"

Of course he would've. But of course he wouldn't tell Wilson that. He didn't... didn't want that kind of loneliness again. "I don't know."

Wilson nodded, seemingly deep in thought before he looked up again. "You wanna go get pizza?"

House chuckled. "Yeah." He found himself smiling, the weight of everything lifting off his chest. He could hang out with Wilson now without being afraid, without worrying about someone dying or about to die. "Yeah, I do."

* * *

Chase stood in front of the headstone, the slight breeze ruffling through his hair. It was a nice day, really. A nice day. He wished he could feel her presence here, talk to her as if she was standing right in front of him, but that was wishful thinking. He had a rock. But a rock was better than nothing.

He was really doing this, wasn't he? He took a deep breath, staring at her name carved into the stone. "Hey. I... I miss you. A lot. And I wish you could be here. But..." his smile quivered. "You're gone." He sighed, looking downward. "I just... I want you to know I'll never forget you. I'll never forget the times we had together, good or bad." His eyes wandered down to his left hand, wedding band sparkling under the sunlight. Carefully, he took it off, rolling it between his thumb and index finger. "And, no matter what, I'll always have some of you with me." He slipped the ring into his jacket pocket, a bittersweet smile on his face. "It's Tuesday, Allison. I love you."

After a few moments of solidarity, be could sense Foreman coming up from behind him, standing at his side. He nodded in acknowledgment.

"What are you going to do now?" Foreman asked, hands buried in his pockets.

Chase shrugged. "Think I'm gonna go back home to Australia for a while." He would probably visit his sister, reconnect with old friends. He honestly just wanted a break from everything.

Foreman raised an eyebrow, turning his head to look at him. "How long are you planning to be away?"

"I don't know." He looked up at the sky, watching the wisps of clouds trail by. "Maybe a week. Maybe years." He shrugged. "There's one thing I do know, though."

"What's that?"

"When I come back... I want a spot on the team." He turned his body to face the neurologist, outstretching a hand.

Foreman accepted the handshake hesitantly, unsure of what the intention was.

Chase grinned, stepping back. "See you later, Foreman." And with that, he walked away, left hand clutching the ring in his pocket.

 **A/N: So, that's the end of the story. I will be posting a tiny bit of bonus content, though, which takes place after the story as a "tenth chapter". If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading, and thoughts/reviews are always appreciated!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hey guys! Happy Halloween! (Or whatever day you happen to be reading this) The below summary is for a "sequel" that will probably never happen, as well as a short "excerpt" (since that's all there is).**

Bonus Scene: After Chase returns to Princeton-Plainsboro, tensions are high. House continues to blame himself for what happened, leading to a strained relationship with Chase, who is suddenly reminded of everything he had tried so hard to forget about. Thirteen, Foreman, and Taub try to solve the latest patient case while House is either bickering with Chase or trying to distract himself with courting Cuddy, who is still in a relationship with Lucas. Chase, haunted with grief, has to make the decision of whether he truly wants to stay at the hospital or to leave permanently.

Chase stood in front of House's desk, head bowed, arms at his sides. It was something that had been bothering him the whole time, even when he was away. He just... couldn't get the picture out of his head. He just saw her lying there, dying, alone, without anyone to comfort her.

House's voice cut through the silence. "Hey, prodigal son, are you just going to stand there or are you gonna say something?"

Chase looked up, meeting his eyes. "Tell me you were with Cameron. When she died." There was a sharp tone to it, accusing.

The humor had left House's gaze at the sound of her name, an invisible wall forming between them as his features hardened.

Chase stepped closer anyway, a pit of emotions bubbling away inside him. "Tell me you didn't stand on the other side of the room, watching. Tell me you held her hand, tell me you told her something!" His chest heaved with every word he spat out, anger burning behind his eyes. But he already knew. Already knew from House's expression that all his worst fears were true. "Tell me she wasn't alone," he said, voice trembling.

House's piercing blue gaze seemed to cut right through him, calculating. It took a moment before he spoke. "Do you want me to lie to you? Because I think you already know the truth."

Chase looked away, nodding. House was right, after all. He did know. He didn't know why he had expected anything else. He turned to leave, but stopped before exiting, another question suddenly plaguing him. "What was the last thing she said?"

House was silent, and when Chase turned back he could see the memories flashing through his eyes, the muscles in his face slack. The silence dragged on before the words left his mouth. "Help me."

But he hadn't. And now she was gone. Chase dipped his head, the weight in his chest unimaginably heavy. "Thank you for telling me." And with that, he left, keeping up the facade of being fine until he reached his car.


End file.
